Crow
by Suul
Summary: Grantaire sympathizes, at length, with Simon Peter.


_[palumbes, -is, m. _- dove. _plumeus, -a, -um_ - leaden; made of lead.]  
  
"A heart that's good should be light, too," Grantaire continued, his feet in wrinkled, paper-leather boots propped up upon an empty table. "What's nobility without a sense of humor? Or if not humor - I see your face goes just a little black at the word, _palumbes meus_, and though I find your pallor remarkably charming, and befitting an archangel, only a touch of black makes all of you quite grey indeed. So if not humor, then at least a little joy - and, I've just thought of it, that too's the problem with the archangels. With all the Lord's messengers. They're possessed of joy, you'll say, and of course we're told they are, for they dwell forever in the presence of the Lord; but what an awful joy! They're noble, sinless, chaste and just - terrible, in other words - and their joy doesn't change them at all. Their faces are stone, and though marble is pure and may appear soft, it's still stone, and nothing else. Their joy merely transforms them, that's not much of a change at all - just sun on stone instead of shadow. They suck all the happiness from joy, strike it out like sin from heaven. I doubt if an angel's ever smiled. I know I've never seen it. But how are men to relate to a God whose only joy is the sublime? We humans, we laugh, and joke, we make fun and blaspheme - Lesgles has been snickering for the past ten minutes, and now I see he's had enough. Good-bye, Lesgles! I shall see you tomorrow, if possible. - But anyhow, we laugh, and joke, we make fun and blaspheme all in the name of humor - or, very well, I'll stick to joy for the present. All these things we do for joy. Did Jesus ever laugh? I don't remember as he did, and though it's been ages since I've read about him, I should think I would remember that. One thing that does come to mind: John tells us He smote a fig-tree because it wouldn't feed him. Shriveled it without a second thought, on the spot, brown and dead in the ground. Forgive me for saying so, _palumbes meus_, my white one, but such an _ill-humored_ being ought not to be allowed any authority. Not a thought for what the tree might have had for him the next day (for trees, I imagine, can change with the right coaxing, just like people). A man like that can't tell anyone anything of use. He who tolerates nothing knows nothing. To lead men, you have to be a man. An angel won't do."  
  
Enjolras was now the only one remaining, save Grantaire, and the silence fell heavily to smother the crinkling noises as he collected his map, old and thin, and his papers, stiff, fresh-printed. His chair scraped dully as he stood. His expression was stern, as a tutor to a child, as he threw his coat over his shoulders.  
  
"Grantaire, you are drunk and you are noisy, and I have work to do. Go home. Or, at least, allow me to go in peace."  
  
Grantaire had sprung to his feet before Enjolras had time to turn his back, with the violent tide of feeling one may suddenly experience, under the smallest of provocations, if there be a full moon overhead, or even a few empty bottles underfoot. "Is that all you have to say!" he erupted. "You don't listen to a word anyone says! You talk and talk, and save only a couple weak sentences for answering to lesser men - you're too brusque, too curt at least for _palumbes_, too short - so we'll shorten it. _Plumbe_, that's what you are. _Plumbe, plumbe,_ and never changing, you wouldn't smile even if you rose from the dead. Nothing I say will ever cut through your sheath; I'll never touch you. I could lay my life down at your feet and you would take it in stride, as it were, and keep on finding fault. I'll swallow my words, just for you: you've done well to follow Jesus in His dreary way, for He's sucked in millions, hasn't He? and all He ever did was find fault. So what if Peter denied Christ? He heard Him, he listened to Him for years, followed Him, loved Him all his latter days! And then, one night alone among the olive trees, he feared the soldiers' spears, as all real men - all mere men - will, spake a lie or three, and became a traitor!"  
  
"Jesus forgave Peter," Enjolras interrupted, quietly, rather gently. His face had lost some of its flint, and he now appeared somewhat stricken. He added, "You are too excited."  
  
But Grantaire seemed beyond hope of calm. "He was unjust to fault Peter at all - there was naught to forgive! Peter was no traitor! Peter was a man!" Abruptly, he sank back into his chair, letting his chin fall to his breast, his eyes cast down to the floor. Enjolras stood before him, or rather hovered; for his posture wavered, and he seemed quite uncertain. He remained thus for some amount of time. Perhaps he wondered then if something could yet be saved.  
  
Grantaire was murmuring to himself. "Jesus was a man, too, of course. We talk of a Lord, and His angels and saints, but none of them exist. The world has only men. I hate to think of what may make men become like angels ..."  
  
Enjolras shifted quietly on his feet. "Come," he said as softly as Grantaire knew he could speak. "I'll help you home."


End file.
